The Unwanted
by ArthurDent2
Summary: {Soulmate! AU with a twist. Every person is born with a mark on their palm, where is written their 'name,' less commonly known as soulmate} Sherlock does not want his name. He does not care for 'John' and no matter what his mark may say, he knows this John person can never care for him. He does not need John. In fact, he hates him. Rated T for mild mentions of self harm
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello readers, and welcome to a new story! I did promise a soul!mate fic, did I not? (I did) So, here it is. **

**Hope you find this enjoyable to read :)**

**WARNING: mild mentions of self harm/self inflicted injury (nothing too bad)**

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Chapter 1

It is a bleak Saturday morning. The sky is a dull grey, whips of clouds scattering the horizon, and the air is stale. The ground is still wet from the rain the night before, and the sounds of chattering and humming of cars can be heard clearly. It breaks the morning silence, even in the early hours. The city is bustling with people, continuing as normal, oblivious to what historic event is transpiring at this very moment in St. Bart's Hospital.

The birth of Sherlock Holmes.

In room 104 a baby cries. A mother lays, exhausted, newborn in arms, and a brother waits in an uncomfortable plastic chair outside to meet his new brother. The nurses take the baby from the unwilling mother, and the doctor assures it is standard procedure. The infant is washed and taken to a separate room. He is placed on a white mat and a microscope is brought to his small, left hand. The magnification is set stronger and stronger, until a faint, black word is seen. On the base of his palm, under his thumb, where most people have them, invisible to the naked eye, is the word imprinted, marked into his skin. It is written in bold, not quite messy but curved, writing. The _name. _Sherlock's name.

John.

{***}

"It cannot be seen at the moment, he is too small, but as he grows, it will become bigger with his hand. It should be visible around 5 to 6 years of age."

The mother nodded, already knowing this of course, but it was still nice to hear it from the doctor. She looked down caringly at the baby in her arms.

"So, what is it? His name, I mean," she asks as she strokes the boy's soft, dark hair from his face, momentarily looking up at the doctor.

He pauses, "John."

Her hand stops midair, but then after a moment she continues to caress the baby's fluff. "I see."

Prejudice is hardly a problem anymore, since the marks appeared, and everyone realised what they meant. It was a gradual thing actually, the marks did not appear on every baby suddenly. It apparently was some kind of spreading mutation, an amazing phenomenon, but nothing science could not explain. The whole concept of the marks always being right and knowing who you would love was still baffling though, and of course the Church took responsibility, claiming it was God's doing. So when it began to show that marks were not exclusively between a man and a woman, what could the Church do but embrace it? Homophobia faded, as the marks grew.

This does not mean that people expected _their _children to be bonded with one of the same gender though. It is accepted, but not everyone jumps with joy when they discover whom their children are to be with.

"He is beautiful," she murmurs quietly.

"Yes," the doctor agrees.

"John is a lucky man."

The doctor squirms uncomfortably a little, but then turns, busying himself and quietly says, "Indeed."

{***}

Not everyone finds his or her name. Statistically only 68% of people ever find their name, it might seem like a low number, but considering seven billion people, and the probability of finding the one person meant for you, one in seven billion, it is actually very high. This is said because names are often drawn to each other or the same places, even before bonding. However, only 91% of those who find their names are happily together. Even so, it is still a big part of society.

Some people find their name at a very young age, most find them later though, between ages twenty to forty, and some never find them. There are even a few rare cases where people get married, and years into their marriage find their name. Some people do not wait for their name; they date, sleep with, and even marry other people. It can be messy, but everyone knows that your name is your name, and no one can compete. Some people never stray from their name, regardless of meeting them or not, thinking being with anyone else was a sin.

Once you find your name and you are bonded, a process that begins when you first touch, it is almost impossible to stay away from them. When names find each other and touch, there is an immediate effect. First they will feel an almost electric shock, at first contact, and their marks will burn red hot, but even after, something else will begin to change. Names are incredibly in sync once bonded, it is said they develop extreme empathy for each other, nothing ridiculous like a telepathic communication, even if some claim so, but still a connection. One cannot stray from their name for too long, it can, in extreme cases, become not only emotionally straining, but actually can begin to physically hurt. This is rare, but does happen to a select few.

If one does not find their name at the age of 35, their mark begins to fade, from black to duller and duller greys. Once you find your name though, the marks will fully reappear, a bold black color again. People who never find their names tend to die early, in their 40's or 50's. Those who are strong believers in names, or as some like to say 'soul mates', say that this is because they die of loneliness. The same group of people also claim that this is the same reason that people who's names have died, follow them soon after. This only happens if the two are already bonded. Of course, this is completely unproven and not scientific, as it is impossible to die of _loneliness. _ The real reason is unknown.

Though it might sound strange, there are different levels of bonding. It is possible that you find your name, but only a weak bond is formed, and they can easily be away from each other. These are mostly the cases that are not happily joined. There are also times when people's bonds are so strong, that the electric shock can knock them unconscious or they're marks can burn so much that they need medical attention. Their empathy is also significantly stronger than others. Sometimes names with weak bonds will have such faint flashes of electric shock that it will only tingle or they don't even feel it. If it was not for the burning in their marks, or sting for the lesser bonded, they might have never known that they'd found their name. Couples like this are always disappointed though, to know how fragile their bond is. Strong bonds are always valued, but they are not always pleasant. Most people desire strong bonds, but they can be very difficult to have. Names can become incredibly dependent on each other, so when they are apart or one of them dies, the other becomes impaired.

Most people highly regard names as very important, some even thought it one of the _most_ important things, but some did not. There is a group of people, coined as the 'unbonded', that find no interest in their names. Now, people who were not bonded are not necessarily 'unbonded'. The unbonded are an express selection of few people that choose not to find or look for their name. They are not a society or a clan or a religion, even if some hardcore believers in bonding think them so. People tend not to speak of the unbonded, an unvoiced topic, taboo. This is why most unbonded are in secret, they do not express their beliefs as to not be ostracized, but some preferred it that way.

{***}

After his sixth birthday his mother begins to worry. Sherlock's mark has still not appeared. They go to the doctor, and it is still _there_, it just will not _grow._ It has not grown since birth. No one knows what to think, this has never happened before, absolutely no record of it since the very beginning. His mother is a wreck, doctors are baffled, and Sherlock is secretly happy.

{***}

When Sherlock turns eight, and his mark still has not appeared, the other kids begin to notice. This is the first time that Sherlock is called a 'split', a slur for the unbonded.

Sherlock does not admit it, to spare his mother, but he knows he is unbonded. He, even at this young age, knows that he is. He has no interest in finding this 'John'. It is unlikely anyways, to find his name. John is such a generic name, it is almost boring, but Sherlock is glad because just the less chances of finding him. He would never know anyway, too many John's to know whether every single one he met was _his_ John or not. It isn't like they would touch either, so he could not be tempted to every find out. He would continue in blissful ignorance of John.

This mark, his mark, invisible mark, it was a sign. Not a superstitious sign or a sign from the universe, that was ridiculous and Sherlock did not believe in that, but a literal showing of Sherlock's unbonded choice. He didn't care for John, and he didn't need him on his hand at all times either.

John is a weakness. Caring is not an advantage, and Sherlock does not plan to do so. He does not _want_ John. He refuses to become dependent upon him, care for him.

Two months and three days later Sherlock begins to wear gloves; he does not want to ever touch anyone again. His mother is still worried, but he tells her of his choice. It does not help.

His gloves are black, normally used as a sign of a widow, but everyone knows that Sherlock has not bonded. There is only one other explanation. Sherlock is unbonded and his mark unseen, and now everyone would know.

No one ever becomes unbonded at such a young age, and no one ever admits it either. No one wants to be ostracized and out casted, to be known publically as 'the unbonded one' but Sherlock is not anyone. Sherlock enjoys the solitude and appreciates the absence of idiots that surround him. It is better this way. He does not need anyone, especially not John.

{***}

A few weeks after Sherlock's ninth birthday his mark finally begins to grow. His mother is relieved, and the doctors are not any less confused, but are more confident on his predicament. They start to claim that if must be because he has a weak bond; this does not please Mrs. Holmes but she is relieved nonetheless. Some people's marks did grow a little later than they should, maybe a few months at the most, but Sherlock's was still inexplicably late. Sherlock is not happy, not at all. He most certainly did not want his mark to grow. He was happy without one.

He does not want John. He hates him. Sherlock hates John. John had branded himself into his skin. Forced this mark or ownership upon him. He did not want it; he did not want John. Sherlock belonged to no one. John certainly was not going to change that.

{***}

The mark grows very slowly, it is still much smaller than it should be when it stops, half the size of a regular mark. Sherlock is twelve. He is still unhappy. It was so much better without it. This is why, a few days later, he attempts, for the first time, to cut it off. He is sent to the hospital. It grows back. He is still unhappy.

He tries again six months later. It grows back. He is still unhappy.

The definition of insanity is doing something over and over again and expecting different results. Sherlock, obviously, knows this. He tries again at thirteen. It grows back. He is still unhappy. He does not think he is insane, despite his actions though, because each time he repeats himself he is not expecting different results, he knows that there will not be, but instead he is just desperately hoping.

{***}

It is in his first year of high school when the names really start to kick in. Almost a fourth of his grade has found their names. It is then he realises what he has to do, to prevent ever from his finding him. It is a new school, so no one knows his what he is called, well the teacher would say it once in role call the first day, but he could easily arrange it for them to call him differently. If he keeps his head down long enough, no one would even notice him until they only knew him by what he had chosen. No one would know what he was called, and his name would never know if he ever were to find him. Now avoiding all Johns would be much less of a hassle. From then on, everyone only knows him as 'Holmes'.

The gloves are a nice touch now. They are no longer a sign of just his unbondedness, because in this new environment no one knows, and they all assumed his name _had_ died. It hardly matters to Holmes. His name is dead to him either way. He is left alone, mostly.

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**A/N: A special thanks to TheRebelFlesh for being lovely and agreeing to take a look at this :)**

**Next chapter coming soon! **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Welcome to chapter two! Before you carry on reading though, I just have to say one thing that I sort of failed to mention before: the first few chapters are like this, which by that I mean, fast paced, little description and sort of drabbley, but that is only so that I am able to set up the story more quickly and efficiently so then we can get to the good stuff, which of course will be formatted as a normal story. Hope you can wait it out, because some stuff is going to go down. ;)**

**Thank you and enjoy! :)**

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Chapter 2

The nurse holds the baby carefully, handing it over to the sweat glazed and exhausted mother, who is reaching out her arms. She brings the bundled newborn to her chest and gently rocks it, back and forth, muttering sweet nothings. She does not take her eyes off of her child as she asks, "Boy or girl?"

"Boy," replies the nurse.

"Oh, good, I've been wanting one of those." She smiles and looks up at the nurse, who takes a moment to understand that she is joking.

They are silent for a few minutes, the mother admiring her baby boy and the nurse busying herself with checking vitals, etc.

"Don't you have to check his mark?" the mother asks the nurse patiently.

"Oh, yes, of course. We're just waiting on Dr. Hyling. He's currently in childbirth. Oh, I mean, well, he's helping with childbirth." The nurse blushes a bit at her mistake and turns away, back to busying herself again.

A several minutes later, said doctor appears. The mother has since fallen asleep, and the baby is placed in a small glass padded cot. The doctor takes the baby away and checks him for his mark. Under the microscope he can see it clear as day, a small black mark, written in surprisingly neat, spiky cursive. The doctor makes a small noise of confusion at the bizarre name, but shrugs and writes it down on the sheet. He then returns the baby to the nurse, who is hovering above him, and hands her the sheet. Her brows furrow when she reads the name, but she gives no comment.

The baby is placed back in the cot and the mother is gently shaken awake.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Watson, you told me to tell you his name as soon as we knew."

The mother becomes more alert suddenly, and reaches out her arms for the baby. The nurse complies and gathers the baby from its cot, giving him to her. She looks instantly more relaxed with the baby in her arms.

"Mrs. Watson, you wanted to know your son's name," the nurse reminds good-naturedly.

"Oh, yes, of course. What is it?" she says, looking up from her son.

She pauses before answering, "Sherlock."

The mother's face turns to a mask of puzzlement. "Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"What gender is that?"

"Uh, well," the nurse begins uncomfortably, "We have no record of anyone called Sherlock in our database, so we have no idea."

"Hmm, what a peculiar name," the mother muses.

"Mrs. Watson?" the nurse asks.

"Yes?"

"Can I ask what have you called your son?"

"Oh, his name is John. John Watson." She let out a soft chuckle then to the nurses' further confusion. "John and Sherlock… I actually quite like the sound of that."

{***}

John is a perfectly healthy baby. He is a 'bouncing baby boy' in all senses. He is well behaved, smiles constantly, rarely cries, and his mark is already becoming visible, a small black smudge. His first word is 'Mama'. He is so normal it is almost implausible. Nothing about John Hamish Watson is strange, what so ever, except perhaps his peculiar name and mark…

{***}

Marks are a strange phenomenon. There is no explanation for their presence or how they work. They can never go away. Even if your hand is cut off, it has been known for them to reappear on a different part of the body, such as the other hand or collarbone. Marks are always, always right too, they always know who your name is. Marks are never wrong.

Another strange occurrence related to marks is the fading. Marks, not only begin to fade after the age of 35 when you have not yet bonded, but also when, regardless of your age, your bonded name dies.

It is considered rude to ask someone what their name is. Once upon a time it used to mean 'what are you called?' but times have since changed as well as the meaning of a name. Names are incredibly personal. The only time people show them freely is if they have recently bonded, or in some cases just to show their devotion to their bonded name.

Once marks become completely visible it is customary for parents to buy their child a band, usually for their birthday. Bands are small cloths that are placed on your palm. The thumb goes through the hole and it wraps around the base of the hand, covering people's marks. Bands can range from extremely cheap, itchy ones, to the most expensive gold embroidered silk ones. Some people liked to show their wealth through their bands. Children and most teenagers tend to settle for stretchy, colorful ones. On ones thirteenth or eighteenth birthday (depending upon beliefs), most parents buy their child a new one, to signify their adulthood, usually as expensive as they could afford to get.

{***}

His mark is fully visible now. For the first time he can read what it says. Sherlock. John's mother never told him what his mark said; she always said that he would be ready to know when it was big enough to read. John thought that was unfair, after all, it was something written on _his_ body, he had every right to know, more than her even. He did not complain though. He waited.

He, of course, was not expecting this. Sherlock, what kind of name is that? John ponders. His name having such an odd and an uncommon name either meant that they would be very difficult to find, or incredibly easy, because no one else is called Sherlock. Neither he nor his parents have ever heard of anyone with such a name.

On his sixth birthday John is gifted with a band. It is dark green and a nylon material and it covers Sherlock perfectly. No one would know his name now. He really doesn't mind his mark showing and doesn't completely understand why he should, but he keeps his band on because his parents tell him it is tradition, it is polite to do so. Because of having his mark so tactfully hidden away something happens the next day.

Mary has always liked John. John has always liked Mary, but not quite as much as she, so John doesn't understand why she asks him to come to a quite corner with him to talk. John and Mary never touch. Most children do not touch skin to skin. They are kept covered up. People, while appreciating young bonds, do not always want their children to bond with their name so early. It can be painful to bond, especially as a child with little pain tolerance, and when you have bonded with your name, your world usually, on some level, revolves around them, which is not always healthy for children. This trend of covering up children tends to stop near the age of ten. So Mary pulls John aside, wearing white gloves and long sleeves, not only because of the cold.

"What is it, Mary?" John asks curiously. While Mary was his friend, she did not usually ask to speak with him privately.

"John, I have to tell you a secret," she whispered urgently, eyes wide.

"Really?" he asked excitedly.

"Yes," she hesitated and blushed a bit, before continuing, "You know it was my birthday a few weeks ago, so now I can read my mark."

"Oh, that's good. My birthday was yesterday, so I can too!" John grins, clearly not understanding what she was trying to get across to him.

"Yeah, I know, that's why I wanted to talk to you. My mark…."

"What about it?" John inquires.

"Well, it says- it says _John_," she says quietly, looking down.

"Oh," John says, but is still confused.

"So… I was wondering if you, well, wanted to… touch, like touch touch…"

John's eyes widen in realisation, and then soften comfortingly. "Oh, Mary," John says apologetically, "My mark… it doesn't say Mary."

"Oh, okay," she says disappointedly.

"There are loads of boys called John, so you'll probably still find him. I'm just not… _your_ John. Sorry."

"No, it's okay. We are still friends, right?" Her gaze shoots up from the ground to look into his eyes, her expression now urgent for assurance.

"Of course! Of course we're still friends, Mary!" John says suddenly, reassuringly.

"Good. I'd like to just be your friend then."

"Me too." He smiles.

{***}

John is eight when he likes a girl for the first time. He has always like girls, excluding the cootie stage of every boy's life, but he never really like liked anyone until now. Her name is Anna. She has long, soft, chocolate brown hair, and she always smells like apples. She is funny and pretty and the best drawer in the class. She is not Sherlock though, so why does John like her? John feels terribly guilty about it, but cannot stop. He consults his mother, or more like confesses, they way he is feeling.

"Mummy?" he asks.

"Hm?" she replies absent mindedly, raising her head a bit in her direction but not taking her eyes off the sandwich she is currently making. "What is it, dear?"

"Mummy, I think I've done something wrong…" John admits quietly.

At this her gaze goes directly to John and her face twists into an expression of concern. "What? What have you done?" she says patiently.

"I..." he pauses, but forces the next words out, " Ilikesomeonebutitsthisgirlcalledannaandhernameisntsherlockbutistilllikeher."

"Sorry, dear, I didn't catch a word of that. What did you say?"

He takes a deep breath. "I like this girl in my class called Anna, but she isn't Sherlock, so does that mean I shouldn't like her? Am I in trouble?" To John's surprise his mother laughs. "Mummy, I'm serious!"

"Oh, I'm sure you are, dear, but no you are not in trouble," she reassures.

"I'm not?" John asks, cocking his head to one side in confusion.

"No, you're not. John, it's okay to like someone who isn't your name. It is perfectly okay."

"But… but she isn't Sherlock…"

"Yes, but that's fine. Most people date and like other people until they find their name, and then they stay with their name. I dated two other boys before finding your father. It's fine, just as long as you like someone _before _bonding. Do you understand?"

"So, I'm not in trouble for liking Anna?"

"No, dear, you're not."

"Oh… okay. Also, can I have cheese in my sandwich?"

{***}

When John is nine he, for the first time, searches 'Sherlock' on the Internet. It is a fairly new thing and only recently could his parents afford a computer, only for work though. John slips out of bed one night to try and use the computer, but it is turned off, and he does not risk turning it on, for it is a noisy process and he isn't completely sure how to do it. He tries again every night until finally it is his lucky day. His father forgets to turn it off and the screen blazes with white light. John pushes himself onto his father's desk chair and reaches up to move the mouse. After a few tries, based off of many hours stolen to watch his father manipulate the machine, he manages to open the internet application a find the search bar, into which he types 'Sherlock'. He looks for what feel like what could be the entire night, but John can find absolutely nothing on anyone called Sherlock except a unprofessional looking website on suggestions for baby names, but the only entry it has for Sherlock claims that it is old Welch unisex name, which really doesn't tell John anything.

He finally gives up and trudges back to bed, rubbing his tired eyes, and yawning silently. He plops down onto the mattress and immediately falls asleep, only to wake wondering why his pillow is at his feet.

{***}

It is John's twelfth birthday. He blows out his candles placed on top of a small piece of chocolate cake he has been served. _Sherlock_, he thinks. John does not tell his family what he wishes for. After a messy verse of 'happy birthday' his sister gives a weak cheer of feigned enthusiasm.

His mother gives him a light kiss on the cheek before handing John a small blue parcel. He smiles broadly at them, and gingerly slides open the box. His eyes widen as he removes its contents. In the palm of his hands lays a small strip of jet-black, smooth silk cloth, a band. An expression of disbelief is replaced with one of gratitude when he meets his father's eyes. John knows exactly how much something like this cost, and it is fair to say that his parents must have really scraped for it.

"Thank you," he says in a quiet voice.

He removes his dark green band, revealing his mark. The new band matches the color of it perfectly. He slips it on carefully and admires it. Somehow he feels like it is exactly right for him, for Sherlock.

{***}

John is thirteen when his kisses a girl for the first time. Her name is Sarah. He likes her. She, much like Anna, is pretty and funny, but instead of long brown, wavy locks, Sarah has straight, shiny, shoulder length blonde hair. Not only that though, she is dead smart. She is not artistic like Anna; she is logical and intuitive. Science is by far her best subject, and she really thrives in biology especially. She is almost as good as John.

They have liked each other for a long time now, at least six months. Five months into this, John finally has the nerve to ask her out. She of course agrees, and they spend the next week holding hands. After a month together, John, while at her house studying in her room, kisses her. It is the first kiss for both of them, and it is awkward and short lived, but John feels a rush of energy and a bit light headed afterwards. They smile, but John cannot seem to rid of a small nagging sensation in the back of his mind. _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_.

John and Sarah date for one month more, but she moves away to another part of England. John is upset and misses her, but after a week, she is easily forgotten.

{***}

John's first year of high school is great, he has loads of friends and a new girlfriend, Janice. Life is good, that is until one day when he cuts his hand.

John rarely takes off his band, only for showers, not even to wash his hands. He doesn't look at his mark anymore, not as often, because when he does, he feels that twist of guilt again, like all those years ago. So, he mostly tries to ignore it. He could not help it though when he, while cutting a loaf of bread, stupidly miscalculates the appropriate amount of force to be used and slices right into the side his palm.

He winces, but the strong boy he is, remains calm.

To prevent the blood soaking his silk band, John unhooks it from his thumb and slips it as far as it will go up his wrist. He grabs a paper towel and pressed it to his now heavily bleeding hand. Walking over to the medicinal cabinet, he keeps the pressure on his wound but then removes his other hand to swing open the cupboard and retrieve a roll of bandage. As quickly as he can, he removes the paper towel and wraps the bandage tightly around his hand. However, while pulling down his band to cover his mark again, he notices something. His mark, it is _different. _Something is wrong. It no longer matches the black of his band. It is… _lighter_, like a very, very dark grey, but not quite black.

He feels panic rise in his chest, and he knows he must be over reacting, but he doesn't know what to do.

"Mum!" he calls urgently.

{***}

The doctors still do not understand what is happening to John's mark. They have absolutely no explanation for the peculiarity at hand. The only thing they do know is that John's mark is fading.

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**A/N: Next chapter will be out sometime this week! :) And again special thanks to TheRebelFlesh! **

**I FELL HAPPY NOW, SO YOU SHOULD TOO. HAVE AN AWESOME REST OF YOUR DAY.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello darlings, here I bestow upon you the next chapter. Sorry it took a bit longer. I had a little case of the writers block, as I know many of you will understand. Well, any who it's over, I just sat myself down and wrote and this came out. Hope you find it enjoyable.**

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Chapter 3

Holmes absent-mindedly traces the slivery scar line circling his mark and tries to, somewhat successfully, drown out his thoughts to a dull buzzing. He glances at his gloves on the bedside table and sighs, leaning over to grab them, wincing when he bends over into the exact wrong angle, straining his wounds. The gloves are retrieved all the same, and gently slip onto his pale hands.

He closes his eyes and tries to ignore his all too familiar surroundings. A clean room with white walls, wide windows with children's doodles plastered on in a failed attempt to provoke joy, a single twin sized bed placed to the side of the room, white sheets that are not quite itchy enough to be troublesome accompanied by thin light blue covers that smell of disinfectant (everything smells of disinfectant), a lone empty chair tucked under a small table where 'get better' cards would have been, a small heart monitor next to the bed, an IV next to that monitor, and the steady 'beep beep beep' that echoes around the small space.

Suddenly the door clicks open and Holmes' eyes fly open. A tall, pudgy figure enters and Holmes lets out a groan. The man has chocolate brown hair, and hints of the beginning of a receding hairline. He wears a fashionable pinstriped suit with a stiff collared, clean, white shirt and deep red tie. He has a professional air about him, but his hands twitch slightly at his side for a moment, as if missing something.

"What do you want?" Holmes asks irritably.

"Nice to see you too, brother dear," the man smirks, closing the door behind him.

"You know how I feel about repetition, so state your purpose or leave, preferably the latter," he snaps.

The man does not reply for several beats. "You overdosed again."

"Clearly, judging by our currently location."

The man ignores him. "You got stabbed."

"_Yes_, for god's sakes we both already know this, why confirm it this absolutely banal way?" Holmes hisses.

"You forget your place, brother."

"Oh, then were would you want me to go then?" he smirks back.

"Rehabilitation, preferably."

"That is not what either of us meant. Stop suggesting rehab, I am not addicted."

"Your medical files would say otherwise."

"I am completely in control," he defies.

"You are not in control, or else you wouldn't be here."

"It's not like it matters to you anyway! Why are you even here?" Holmes bursts suddenly.

"Despite what you may think, brother, I do care for you. Sherl-"

"Do not call me that," Holmes interrupted, unconsciously rubbing his scars again.

"Oh for god's sakes, I play your little charade in public for you, but you cannot ask that I _never _call you by your birth name."

"I do. You can call me Holmes, brother, or nothing."

"And for what? So that your name cannot find you? Have you ever considered that they may be able to help you? Why are you so desperate not to bond?" the man exclaimed, restraining from anger.

"Do not bring him into this!" Holmes hisses through gritted teeth.

The man's face softens, not in relief or affection though, just in a broken way, an 'I give up' way. He lets out a deep sigh and clenches his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, as if trying to keep a headache at bay.

"Brother, I try to help. I leave you be as much as I can, but I must intervene when such things as these happen. I will not allow you to destroy yourself. Do not waste yourself to narcotics or all things," the man's tone was on the brink of a plead, but his face shows no such correlation.

Holmes takes a moment before saying, "Wow, a please and everything, you're really going all out, brother."

"Just remember, that when you do lose control, I tried. I have exceeded my limitations; this is something you have to do yourself. This is on _you._" With that the man turns sharply and leaves without another word.

"Stupid brother," Holmes huffs irately to himself.

He takes another moment in silence, contemplating the meeting, shortly doubting himself. What if his- No, of course he isn't. Holmes is in control. He could stop whenever he wants.

He gives his head a small shake and mentally scolds himself for even thinking that his brother could have had a point. He glances down at his gloves, and his finger almost shudders as he thinks of pulling the left one off, or even just pushing it up a bit. He does not.

No, he is fine.

{***}

It is two months before it happens again. Back to the hospital he goes.

No one visits him, not even his brother. He is glad to be rid of the insufferable git, but his stomach twists when he thinks about his absence too hard. It does not matter; the man probably had him on surveillance anyway. He always has cameras following him.

The process is as usual, and he is set free within a few days. He goes back to his regular routine, but one day something new happens. New things do not normally happen to him.

Holmes, while on his way to his first deal since the clinic, stumbles upon a crime scene. It is a small one at that, but enough to catch the boy's attention. It is in a dank alleyway, which itself is typical. It is not a particularly gruesome scene, but something about it is interesting. It is not a regular crime. He cannot see it completely, the body is obscured by yellow tape and guarding officers, but he can see it well enough, with his exceptional eye sight and quick thinking. It is a young boy, his age cannot be too far from Holmes', and he is wearing a dark, bloodied t-shirt and baggy jeans, with worn and yellowing, white tennis shoes. He looks ordinary enough, but what watch catches Holmes' eye is not his clothing or even cause of death, but a peculiar mark on his finger.

"The gunshot wound is the apparent cause of death, it's most likely just a mugging. He's-"

"You're wrong, you know!" Holmes calls over the barrier. The policeman in question spins around and looks at the civilian incredulously, but before the man could say anything in response Holmes continues, "It isn't a mugging, check his wallet, it will be full."

"Uh, sorry but this is a cri-" starts another.

"No, wait. Hey, you, did you see anything?" asks the first policeman.

"No, but I know what happened," Holmes answers simply, shrugging a bit.

"How?" he asks, his eyes narrowed.

"I did not see then, but I can see now. It is written plainly all around you what happened. Perhaps if your team was more competent, you would be able to see it too," Holmes scoffs.

"Now, listen here-"

"The boys clothes and haircut suggest middle class, but I'm sure if you check his wallet, which you really should have already, you'll see he is not, but is instead he is belonging to a wealthy family. This is evident by his manicured fingernails and graduation ring, Chelsea Independent College, an exclusive private school not far from here. His wound, it is not post mortem because of the amount of blood, but it is not the cause of death either. It was given before his death so he bled out regularly, but he was dead of the poison shortly before the loss of blood would have gotten him. Yes, poison, obviously. Look at the slight bruising around his mouth and jawline. Someone forcefully opened his mouth and made him swallow something, assuming he was drunk, by his trousers and shoes. It wouldn't have been very difficult. On his hand, other hand, there are faint scratches up his ring finger, and on the same finger, just bellow, fading imprint of a ring. Most likely his ring was urgently removed from his person. The ring was not taken for money though, as is clear by his wallet full of money. It was murder, feigned as a mugging to through you off. I suggest looking for traces of cyanide in autopsy. You're looking at a serial killer."

The man, as well as the entire scene looks dumbfounded at the young man, and after a few beats, he manages to ask, "Serial killer?"

"Yes, obviously. Cyanide, it's way of entry, if he, male is statically more likely, knew him he could have easily slipped it into his food or drink, but instead he waited for him to get drunk enough and stumble away from his friends and forced it down his throat. Admittedly cyanide is a strange choice for a serial murderer, but it is so. Anyway, you should have had enough to go on by the ring."

"The ring? The ring he took? Why?"

Holmes smirks and simply replies, "He wanted a souvenir."

The man goes silent again, and the officers' baffled and questioning gazes do not waver.

Holmes sighs again. "Well, now that I have basically solved you case in, what, two minutes? I think I'll be off. Laterz!" he adds mockingly.

"Wait, how-" the officer begins, but the boy has already disappeared with a flap of his dark, fairly ragged trench coat. He is faster than he looks.

Holmes smiles to himself. That was… it was satisfactory.

He feels a small rush from it, and all but snickers at the stupid looks on the police's faces. It felt _good._ He feels less bored. He is always bored. It is a small, yet great improvement. There is a small but proud smirk planted on his face.

He feels… less intense. The craving does too. It isn't enough though, of course it isn't. He needs more.

He reaches his original destination and a few minutes later walks back with a lighter wallet and heavy pockets.

{***}

The buzz and distraction of 'detective work' is almost as addictive. Holmes finds himself searching for crime, just so he can solve it. He does not care to become a detective inspector or even a private detective, not that with his _medical record_ he would be able to get into police academy, dull. Anyway, he would never stoop to the level of joining _the police_, they are all idiots, that's why the need only thing he wants is to satisfy his craving and do the job.

Eventually one policeman catches sight of him. He gets in a fair bit of trouble for intervening in a crime scene, but the man sees something in the boy.

Now it has been three months since DI Lestrade has employed Holmes as his aid in solving crimes. Consulting Detective; that is what Holmes likes to call himself, the only one in the world.

It is then that the DI discovers Holmes' other _occupation_. He is told to clean up or forget the work.

The next few weeks are the worst.

Holmes goes to rehabilitation.

{***}

"Your little psych tricks you learned in uni don't work on me. Stop inflicting your horrible and inaccurate analyses upon the world. Can I go yet?" Holmes snaps, pushing himself from his seat.

"No, you have to talk or else your session won't count, then you'll just have to stay longer," replies the doctor, not in a threat, but more of a strangely off-putting, friendly reminder. Holmes sighs but retakes his seat and the doctor smiles. "Now, Sherlock, you-"

"Do not call me that," he interrupts.

"What would you prefer I call you then?" The doctor raises his eyebrows.

"Holmes, just Holmes."

"Why would you like it better that I call you that?" Holmes remains silent. "Well, Sher-"

"Fine, fine! It is because marks do not have last names."

"Ah, I see," the doctor nods. Holmes doubts that he even half understood. "Do you consider yourself unbonded?"

Holmes huffs and responds irritably, "That is a ridiculous term. I do not wish to bond, why must there be a title for it? I am not '_unbonded'_, as you so like to call it, for reasons that most are."

"Of course, and what would those reasons be then?" the doctor asks.

Holmes does not answer.

"Are we done yet? I think enough has been shared."

The doctor ignores him. "Do you think this has anything to do with your past drug use."

Holmes eyes blaze and he hisses, "Do not pretend to understand me. You have your diploma, but that does not mean you are any more competent at your job, especially when it comes to me. I doubt you've ever met anyone on my intellectual level before, even outside of work, so do not think you can comprehend my mind by asking me a few preplanned psycho-analysis questions."

The doctor shows no real sign of reaction, but Holmes can still see the hint of resentment and surprise in the man's face and body. He excuses himself and the doctor does not object.

He does not slam the door behind him, but he wants to.

After the haze of anger fades away, Holmes aimlessly wanders the halls of the hospital. He randomly deduces patients and nurses, but it is all love affairs and money, which frankly he has had enough of. It does not help with the boredom beginning to creep in again; these were the times he did something stupid and rash. He does not though. Holmes continues to walk around purposelessly, until a nurse finds him and leads him back to his room. He does not refuse; he was beginning to tire of ambling anyway.

He does not dislike his room. It is not completely one like a standard hospital's, it has variation and thank god it does not have children's doodles in this clinic, for obvious reasons. The walls are not blinding white, but a soft blue. The lights are not bright florescent lights in long bulbs, but instead a subtler more yellowish tinted light emitting from a ceiling fan. The bed is more comfortable than the usual hard mattress and thin layers, but most of all, there are no windows. It should not be at all comforting but it is. He should feel trapped and cut off and claustrophobic, but he does not. He feels… safe. He will never say this out loud though, not even to himself.

He does not feel as trapped because it does not feel completely like a hospital here. The windows are somehow symbolic he supposes. Hospitals were open and plastered windows in every room to give the illusion of freedom to the patient, but this, a windowless room, it felt real, no deception, very unlike a hospital. Yet, he only felt this way when he is solitary; anyone else ruins the effect.

In the place of where a window would have been, is a bookshelf, half full. This is his brother's doing, of course it is. This whole room is unusual. It had to be. This would have, on most occasions, annoyed Holmes, but it does not. He just wants to go home really, that and work. He does not have a real home to go to though, so this, little oddly out of place hospital room, would have to do for now.

* * *

**A/N: Well, there you go, chapter three. I have begun chapter 4 already, so hopefully it shall be out in the ether for you to read soon. Good day. **


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